Not Anything (9 page)

the next day in driver’s ed, i sit in my squad line and think
about everything Marisol had to say the day before. I think about wanting to fit in. What makes that so important to Marisol or even to me?

I’ve always considered myself logical enough to know that after high school none of these people will matter. But because I’ve spent pretty much the last eleven years with them, I can’t help but wonder if maybe that’s a lie. What if they always matter? What if later on in life—just like now—I don’t fit in? Does Marisol feel that way, too?

“Let’s go!” Jessica nudges me with her shoe. José is absent, so for today, she’s squad leader. We’re parallel parking, which according to Coach Brown, is the eighth wonder of the world.

I shake my head. “I don’t feel well.”

“Well…” she says snottily, “I didn’t ask for the explanation. Come on, Bobby, you’re on!”

“God,” Tamara says after Jessica’s dragged Bobby away. “I can’t believe that she and I have to be on the same homecoming court. She’s such a super-bitch. I can’t believe that Danny ever dated someone like her.”

“What?” I turn around so quickly, I nearly get whiplash. “What did you say?”

“Yeah,” Tamara’s eyes widen gleefully. “You didn’t know? As soon as Danny got here last year, she snatched him up. They broke up in August, I think.”

“How do you know?” I strain to sound disinterested.

“Everyone knows, and Danny”—she drops her eyes slyly—“told me last night when he came over to my house.”

“Danny…came…to…your house…last night?” I repeat slowly.

“Yeah.” Her smile is so bright, I’m almost blinded. “We’ve been studying for our SATs together since right before Halloween. You know”—she leans in so that I can smell every crevice of her peppermint breath—“ever since you told him that I wanted to know if he had a girlfriend.”

“Oh.” I don’t know whether to claw her eyes out or pound my head into the cement for being such an idiot.

What did Danny say when he gave me the CD?
Thank you for helping me with my test and for other things…
By
other things,
did he mean hooking him up with Tamara?

“Yeah, I really, really wanted to thank you. I can’t believe it. He’s like super-super-hot! Don’t you think? Anyway,” Tamara continues, “I’ve been dying to tell Jessica, but I haven’t had a chance. I can’t wait to see the look on her face!”

The clouds clear and the sunlight highlights Tamara’s honey-colored tones. Next to my pile of frizz, her hair is bone straight. Jennifer Aniston straight.

What was it that Danny said about my
Alice in Wonderland
wig?
You look so different…
I guess I did—I looked more like Tamara.

“Oh.” Tamara rolls her eyes. “Look who’s coming.”

I look up to see Jessica approaching. Her jet-black hair blows in the wind as she struts toward us like the whole world is watching her—or at least every guy in our class. If Danny is into bitchy, gorgeous girls with mammoth breasts, I can see why Jessica appeals to him.

“When Jessica gets here,” Tamara whispers in my ear, “ask me who invited me to homecoming. It’ll be totally funny.”

“Who invited you?” My stomach drops a thousand feet. “Who invited you?” I repeat.

Tamara rolls her eyes. Again. “Just ask…Here she comes.”

“Let’s go.” Jessica nudges Tamara with her foot. “It’s your turn.”

“Sorry,” Tamara says politely, “but Susie was just in the middle of asking me a question, so you’ll have to wait.” She turns back to me and says very loudly, “What was your question?”

“What?” I feel numb.

“Your question…” Tamara smiles sweetly, but her eyes are slowly narrowing. “Remember?”

Jessica plants her hands on her hips and looks down at us. “Can you hurry this up? You’re holding everyone up.”

Tamara pinches me. “C’mon,” she hisses.

“Looks like you’re ready, so let’s go.” Jessica taps the top of Tamara’s head like she’s tapping a table.

It seems impossible that Danny would go out with either of these über-bitches. But, apparently he would. He would go out with them, but not with me, never with me.

“Actually,” I say suddenly, “I do have a question.” I stand up so that I tower over both of them. “Tamara, when did you become such a bitch?”

I glare down at Tamara. Her mouth drops open and she stares at me with a dumbstruck expression. Behind me, Jessica bursts out laughing.

“You think this is funny?” I turn toward Jessica. Then I look back at Tamara, still staring up at me, her jaw glued to the floor. “You two deserve each other.”

“What?” Jessica stops laughing. “What did you say?” She takes a step toward my face like she’s about to hit me, and I seriously debate backing down. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I’m totally shaking from the inside out. But it’s like I can’t stop myself. It’s like having an out-of-body experience or something. All I can think is what evil bitches Tamara and Jessica really are.

“Jessica—” Instinctively, I step back. “Tamara has something she wants you to know.”

Jessica turns toward Tamara and hisses, “What?”

Tamara stares up at us, quivering.

“Tamara, tell us who you are going to homecoming with,” I command.

Tamara looks from Jessica to me and then back to Jessica, completely aware that she’s being sabotaged.

“Who are you going with, Tamara?” Jessica kicks Tamara’s thigh.

“Ouch!” Tamara is stunned, utterly stunned.

“Well, who?” Jessica kicks her again. “Who?”

It’s like watching a cat about to be eaten by a dog, only worse.

“I’m going with Danny…” Tamara stutters. “Danny Diaz.”

“Excuse me?” Jessica crouches over Tamara. “Excuse me,” she coils her head like a snake. “You’re going where with Danny?”

“She”—I enunciate my words carefully so Jessica will get the full impact—“is going to homecoming with Danny Diaz. Your ex-boyfriend.” Then I take ten steps back and wait for the sparks to fly.

And they do fly. There’s glistening hair going everywhere.

It takes exactly thirty seconds for Jessica’s screaming and Tamara’s shrieking to draw the attention of the entire class.

“What’s going on?” Bobby sidles up to me as the rest of the class starts to crowd around.

“I think,” I say with a smile, “I just ignited the first catfight of the year.”

“Two homecoming princesses tearing each other’s clothes off.” He scoots closer to the action. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” I turn back to look. “Definitely cool.”

“what are you doing here?”

At about six p.m. on Friday, my father wanders out of his bedroom and finds me curled up in a ball on our family room sofa. My dog, Mogley, is snoring soundly at my feet.

“Watching TV.” I flip through the channels, but nothing pops out at me.

“I can see
that,
” my dad says. “But why are
you
watching
it here?
”

“Because I
live
here.” I know that it shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t be sarcastic. But it is so much easier to give my dad attitude than to admit the real reason why I’m not at Marisol’s house, enjoying my usual Friday night rental-movie fest. The REAL REASON is that Marisol sucks. And she has a new boyfriend. And she sold me out for her new
boyfriend
and a $65 ticket to see Coldplay live at the American Airlines Arena.

“Okay…” My dad sits next to me on the couch and pats my knee. “What are you going to watch?”

“Why?” I stop channel surfing, surprised to find him somewhat settled on the sofa next to me. “Aren’t you going to write tonight?” I ask.

“You know.” He sighs. “I don’t think so. I’ve been writing for the last twenty days straight, and I think I’ve hit a mental roadblock.”

“So, you’re not going to write?” I repeat.

“No, I’m not.” He props his feet up on the coffee table. “Wait.” He taps my leg. “Go back to Bravo. That looks interesting.”

I turn the TV back to the Bravo channel and set the remote aside. The sofa ripples as my father sinks farther into the cushions. I stare at him watching the TV like I’m witnessing firsthand an alien invasion. When he actually chuckles at the program, I’m nearly convinced that I’m in the middle of a Steven Spielberg film.

“Do you want me to see if there’s a movie coming on?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.

“You know,” he smiles over at me, “that would be—”

The sound of our phone ringing prevents him from finishing his sentence. “Let me get that.” He gets up to grab the phone in his study. While he’s gone, I scroll through the DirecTV menu. There’s an Alfred Hitchcock film coming on next at eight p.m. My dad loves Alfred Hitchcock.

“
The Birds
is on at eight,” I tell him when he comes back. I scoot my legs closer to my body to make more room for him on the sofa. “Sit down,” I say when he keeps standing.

“I’m fine.” He stares down at me. “That was Leslie on the phone.”

“Yeah, is everything okay?” The way my dad keeps standing there, staring at me, is starting to make me nervous.

“Oh, yes”—he perches on the edge of the sofa—“everything’s fine. Leslie called because a friend gave her tickets to the New World Symphony tonight. She wanted to see if I’d like to accompany her.”

Leslie was asking my father out on a date? Again?

“What do you think of that idea?” he asks in a neutral voice.

“What do you mean, what do I think of that idea?” I’m not exactly sure what he expects me to say. Does he want me to tell him not to go? Because that’s what I think—that he shouldn’t go.

“I haven’t been to the symphony in years. Not since…”

The end of his sentence hangs in the air like the laundry my grandmother puts out to dry. He doesn’t have to finish it. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say that he hasn’t been to the symphony since my mother died.

“Do you want to go?” It seems like the right question to ask.

“You know”—he runs his fingers through his hair the way he does when he’s torn over something—“I’d really like to hear a clarinet tonight, and a bass, and maybe even a piccolo…but Alfred Hitchcock—well that’s a classic.”

“And,” I tell him, “You can watch a classic forty times and still get something from it.”

My dad gives me an odd look. “Your mom used to say that.” He sits on the sofa and stares blankly at the TV. His body is straight. “Maybe I’ll tell Leslie no.” He stands up and heads for his study.

“Wait.” I call him back before I’m even sure what I want to say. “We can always rent
The Birds.
”

“Oh…” He looks really indecisive. “So I should go?”

I pause. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’d rather eat my own toenails than let him go out with Leslie. But I also don’t want him to stay here with me out of pity. “You should,” I finally say, “do what you really want.”

“I think”—he runs his hands through his hair again—“that I would like to go.”

“Then go,” I tell him.

“I’ll go,” he says, turning to leave.

I turn back to the TV and start surfing the channels, again. I listen to his phone call through the din of the television.

And even though it hurts to admit it, he sounds excited on the phone, which is great.
Really.
I should be happy for him, I guess.

It’s just that his excitement barely matches the excitement I felt a moment ago when for a minute I thought that maybe, just maybe, he might actually have room in his life for me.

that night i wait for leslie and my father to return. in some
weird, perverse way I want to witness the end of their date. I want to see if he’ll kiss her.

I try to occupy my mind by tearing Leslie apart. It’s a hard task because I really, really like Leslie, even if she is totally different from my mom, and I can’t understand why my dad is attracted to her.

First, she’s agnostic. My mom was a devout Catholic. Secondly, she’s completely too topical for my dad. My dad is an intellectual. He reads
The New York Times
and
The Economist.
True, Leslie has a large reading list, but it ranges from
Allure
to
Vanity Fair.

I pull back my vertical blinds and stare out onto our street. The full moon is beautiful, a perfect white circle tangled up in wispy gray clouds. In the moonlight, our street looks peaceful, and I think about what it’s like to have lived here for the last fifteen years. Except for Marc Sanchez being an absolute idiot, it’s been really nice.

Across the street, Mr. Middleton is taking his dog Popsicle for a late-night walk. I glance at the clock. Half past one. I wait a little longer, and eventually headlights creep up our street and slowly halt in front of our house. It’s them. The silhouette of Leslie’s Lincoln Town Car is illuminated by the moon. I move to my second bedroom window, the one that faces into the courtyard of our one-story ranch-style home. I slide the window open just enough so that I can press my ear against the window screen. Then I patiently wait for them to get within hearing distance.

“Thanks for lending me that book,” I hear Leslie say, as she passes underneath the archway that leads into the courtyard. She looks over at my window and I wonder if she can see me, but apparently she can’t because she says, “Looks like Susie might be asleep already. I hate for us to disturb her. Maybe I should get it later?”

“Susie sleeps like the dead,” my dad assures her. “So it’s no problem at all.”

Leslie hums as she follows my dad up the walkway. “I’m sorry. I can’t get that aria out of my head. It was so beautiful.”

“Yes,” my father says, “yes it was.”

“You know”—Leslie steps onto the front porch—“I really thought it was sweet that you held my hand when I cried. That meant a lot to me.” Leslie tilts her head up to his.

“It was nice to see that you could be so moved.” My dad takes a small step backward.

“So…” Leslie says, shifting slightly, “I’ll wait here.”

“Right.” My dad unlocks the door and I hear him enter the house and go into his study. Minutes later he returns with a book in hand. He hands it to Leslie.

“Keep it as long as you like.”

“Thanks, I’ve always wanted to learn more about classical music. This will really help.” Leslie brushes her hand across my father’s shoulder. They stare at each other for a long time. “I had a really good time.”

“I did, too.” My dad rocks on his heels. He seems to avoid staring directly at Leslie.

“Do you think you’d like to do it again sometime?” Leslie’s voice catches in her throat.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well”—Leslie inches closer—“give me a call next week. We’ll talk.”

“Sure.” My dad stops rocking. Even though his head is slung low, I can see the tension in his face. Their feet are nearly touching. Leslie leans forward. She rests her head on his chest, and then slowly, very slowly, lets her arms wind up his back and, with her hands, cups his salt-and-pepper hair.

“Joe.” She says the word so softly. “Joe.”

“Yes…” My dad is as stiff as a statue.

“It’s okay, Joe,” she whispers.

“It’s okay?” he repeats, sounding confused.

“Yes.” She holds him tightly. “It’s okay.”

I watch them, unsure of what’s happening. His body is still stiff, his hands buried in his pockets. He stares off into the night. I want to go to him. I want to comfort him. I want to tell him that it’s not okay. That
I
know.

“No,” he says after some time. “I’m not sure that it
is
okay.” The minute I hear him speak, I know that he has spoken for both of us.

“Oh. Of course. I understand.” Leslie untangles herself from him. “I’ll call you, Joe.”

“Yeah, okay.”

My dad waits until Leslie is safely in her car before coming back into the house. When she’s gone, I rest my head on the window ledge and stare into the night. I watch the moon. I try to remember what it looked like the night my mom died. I wonder if it will ever look the same.